Reminders of Him(3)

I open the back door of the bar and am met with the grating sound of my favorite song being slaughtered by Ugly Kid Joe through the loudspeakers.

Surely not.

I walk through the kitchen and into the bar and immediately spot them. They’re hunched over the jukebox. I quietly make my way over to them and see she’s punching in the same four numbers again and again. I look over their shoulders at the screen while they giggle like mischievous children. “Cat’s in the Cradle” is set to play thirty-six times in a row.

I clear my throat. “You think this is funny? Forcing me to listen to the same song for the next six hours?”

My father spins around when he hears my voice. “Ledger!” He pulls me in for a hug. He smells like beer and motor oil. And limes, maybe? Are they drunk?

My mother backs away from the jukebox. “We were trying to fix it. We didn’t do this.”

“Sure, you didn’t.” I pull her in for a hug.

They never announce when they’re going to show up. They just appear and stay a day or two or three and then head out in their RV again.

Their showing up drunk is new, though. I glance over my shoulder, and Roman is behind the bar now. I point to my parents. “Did you do this to them, or did they show up this way?”

Roman shrugs. “A little of both.”

“It’s our anniversary,” my mother says. “We’re celebrating.”

“I hope you guys didn’t drive here.”

“We didn’t,” my father says. “Our car is with the RV in the shop getting routine maintenance, so we took a Lyft.” He pats my cheek. “Wanted to see you, but we’ve been here two hours waiting for you to show up, and now we’re leaving because we’re hungry.”

“This is why you should warn me before you drop into town. I have a life.”

“Did you remember our anniversary?” my father asks.

“Slipped my mind. Sorry.”

“Told you,” he says to my mother. “Pay up, Robin.”

My mother reaches into her pocket and hands him a ten-dollar bill.

They bet on almost everything. My love life. Which holidays I’ll remember. Every football game I’ve ever played. But I’m almost positive they’ve just been passing the same ten-dollar bill back and forth for several years.

My father holds up his empty glass and shakes it. “Get us a refill, bartender.”

I take his glass. “How about an ice water?” I leave them at the jukebox and make my way behind the bar.

I’m pouring two glasses of water when a girl walks into the bar looking somewhat lost. She glances around the room like she’s never been here before, and then when she notices an empty corner at the opposite end of the bar, she makes a beeline for it.

I stare at her the entire time she’s walking through the bar. I stare at her so hard I accidentally overfill the glasses and water goes everywhere. I grab a towel and wipe up my mess. When I look at my mother, she’s looking at the girl. Then at me. Then at the girl.

Shit. The last thing I need is for her to try to set me up with a customer. She tries to play matchmaker plenty when she’s sober, so I can’t imagine how bad the tendency might be after a few drinks. I need to get them out of here.

I take the waters to them and then hand my mother my credit card. “You guys should go down to Jake’s Steakhouse and have dinner on me. Walk there so you can sober up on the way.”

“You are so nice.” She clutches at her chest dramatically and looks at my father. “Benji, we did so well with him. Let’s go celebrate our parenting with his credit card.”

“We did do well with him,” my father says in agreement. “We should have more kids.”

“Menopause, honey. Remember when I hated you for an entire year?” My mother grabs her purse, and they take the glasses of water with them as they go.

“We should get rib eye since he’s paying,” my father mutters as they walk away.

I release a sigh of relief and then make my way back to the bar. The girl is tucked quietly into the corner, writing in a notebook. Roman isn’t behind the bar right now, so I’m assuming no one has taken her order yet.

I gladly volunteer as tribute.

“What can I get you?” I ask her.

“Water and a Diet Coke, please.” She doesn’t look up at me, so I back away to fulfill her order. She’s still writing in her notebook when I return with her drinks. I try to get a glimpse of what she’s writing, but she closes her notebook and lifts her eyes. “Thank . . .” She pauses in the middle of what I think is her attempt at saying thank you. She mutters the word you and sticks the straw in her mouth.

She seems flustered.

I want to ask her questions, like what her name is and where she’s from, but I’ve learned over the years of owning this place that asking questions of lonely people in a bar can quickly turn into conversations I have to maul my way out of.

But most of the people who come in here don’t capture my attention like she has. I gesture toward her two drinks and say, “Are you waiting for someone else?”

She pulls both drinks closer. “Nope. Just thirsty.” She breaks eye contact with me and leans back in her chair, pulling her notebook with her and giving it all her attention.

I can take a hint. I walk to the other end of the bar to give her privacy.